Spirit possession is easy to remedy. Possession of the heart is another matter.

After vicar’s widow and natural medium Barbara Darke loses her respectable teaching position, she reluctantly agrees to become companion to her former pupil Emily, now the bride of young Sir Arthur Haggard.

Once settled at Haggard Hall, Barbara finds her friend is beset by ghostly voices and unexplained deaths. In a maelstrom of dark spirits and wicked emotions, Barbara battles to lay Emily’s ghosts to rest—both hampered and helped by Arthur’s skeptical cousin Patrick, who provokes and attracts her in equal measure.

It would be a mistake to trust a secretive, guilt-ridden man suspected of driving his wife to suicide, if not outright murdering her. And it could well be lethal to give in to her own desires, confused as they often are with the lusts of the dead.

But Arthur and Emily are in genuine physical danger, and suspicion is falling closer and closer to Patrick—the man who haunts Barbara’s sensual dreams. The man who stands to inherit Haggard Hall.

Warning: Contains a medium whose body is open season for spirit possession, and a scandal-ridden journalist who only believes what he can see—and touch.

As I skirted the throng, which was
broken into several smaller ones, like satellites around my mother, I
cautiously opened myself further to their emotions. I felt my gaze tugged once
more towards the open doorway to the hall. And there he was, my sceptic, looking
right at me.

Something jolted inside me. I had been
right. Full-on, his face was dramatic. Angular, almost bony, it was
dominated by black, straight brows over dark, harsh eyes that concealed layers
of turbulence and profound, conflicting emotions; a hard mouth with a sensual
curve.

Tall, straight, and broad shouldered,
his body gave the impression of being only loosely flung together. His dress
was respectable and yet hung on him with such carelessness that it somehow
suggested the entirely disreputable.

His unblinking regard washed over me in
waves. Anger; constant anger. Curiosity and annoyance. He didn’t want to be
here and yet needed to know what would happen.

Contempt, disbelief. And a sudden surge
of lust that made me gasp and spin away from him in shock, for my own body
flamed in wicked reply.

It was hardly the first time I had
sensed such feelings directed at myself. It was a normal part of life, usually
distant, unthreatening, and easy to ignore. But this man’s emotions ran deep.

Deep, damaged, dangerous, just the kind
of man we didn’t need here. Just the kind of man I should avoid. My
entirely worldly, physical response to him told me that. Even with my back to
him, I could feel his eyes burning into me like caressing hands. And I wanted those
hands. I needed them—on my breasts, between my thighs, everywhere—with a
force that made me tremble. He would be a fierce lover, strong and demanding
and exciting… I longed to be excited like that.

He wanted me. If I walked over to him
now, I’d only need to smile and touch his arm and he’d take me away, to his own
rooms, wherever they were, or to some anonymous, discreet hotel where we could
spend all night in wild, sensual delights. Forbidden, delicious, without
inhibition…

But it would never happen. I needed my
demons safely locked up, and I knew instinctively that this man spelled danger
for me.

But I’d watch him for my mother’s sake,
for I sensed he meant us no good.

As I walked back, I glanced to either
side. He moved with me, following me, not just with his gaze but with his
person, along the length of the wall, like a large, predatory cat. Or a wolf,
perhaps. His lust enfolded me, teasing my own. But even over the space between
us, interrupted by other guests who blocked my view from time to time, I caught
the hint of contempt, the tinge of anger amidst the desire in his dark gaze.

Which made my temptation suddenly easy
to resist. I halted and lifted one haughty eyebrow, allowing my own disdain for
his undeserved judgment to curl my lip. I’d always found my stare and my
eyebrow to be an infallible deterrent, but this man didn’t hesitate.

His lips curved upward, and as though he
took my attention for an invitation, he swerved suddenly in my direction.

My breath caught in uncharacteristic
panic. A new, fierce tug of sensual yearning told me I couldn’t be anywhere
near this man, and yet I wouldn’t run. I refused to be despised when I’d done
nothing to deserve it.

“Shall we begin?” my mother said,
shattering the strange illusory bubble which seemed to have formed over myself
and the sceptical stranger. “Those who would like to join in, please sit down
at the table. Everyone else, feel free to watch and move around as you wish.

All I ask is that you don’t interrupt.
Sir, would you mind closing the outer door?”

She looked directly at my sceptical
stranger. She might have seen our little byplay, or she might have sensed the
same danger I did. On the other hand, he was nearest the door. I wondered if
he’d be rude enough to ignore her request.

But my sceptic inclined his head. The
gesture was somehow more mocking than gracious, but he obediently walked back
and closed the door as she asked. Then he leaned one powerful shoulder against
it and waited, apparently, to be entertained.

I found my own refuge by the bedroom
door for escape purposes, and waited with resignation for the show. God knew
there was enough emotion in that room to make it a good one.

About the Author:

Marie Treanor lives in Scotland, in a chaotic house by the sea, together with her eccentric husband, three much too smart children and a small dog who rules them all. Most days, she avoids both housekeeping and evil day jobs by writing stories of paranormal romance and fantasy.

Marie is the award winning author of over forty sexy paranormal romances - Indie, New York and E-published.